


First Year

by peacefrog



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22391743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: “I know you’re already making plans for Coldwater, but I’d think twice about that if I were you.”
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 35
Kudos: 228
Collections: Magicians Monthly Prompt Challenge





	First Year

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Magicians Monthly Prompt Challenge. This month's prompt is: Monster. This might be borderline crack.

Eliot had fucked a lot of First Year boys in his time at Brakebills. Margo said he had a fetish, but what did she know honestly. If Eliot had a fetish for anything it was pretty, and lithe, and eager. Soft skin and an even softer mouth. And Eliot was young and hot and had the biggest dick on campus, so he figured he was allowed.

Margo passed Eliot the bong and said, “I know you’re already making plans for Coldwater, but I’d think twice about that if I were you.”

Eliot gave her a curious look as he took a hit. Margo may have been the most judgmental person in his life, but she’d never actively tried to stop him from getting laid. “Where I put my dick,” he said, exhaling a great cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling, “is not actually up for debate.”

“Please.” Margo rolled her eyes, taking the bong back and setting it on the floor. “I don’t give a shit who you bang. I’m just trying to be a good friend and warn you.”

“Warn me…” Eliot’s stoned brain lagged behind for a breath or two. “Of what?”

She shrugged. “I saw something in his eyes the other day. Creeped me the fuck out if I’m being honest.”

Eliot let something like a giggle slip out of his mouth. “You saw… something in his eyes.”

“I don’t mean it like that, you cock.” She lit a cigarette, took a drag, blew it out. “His eyes literally fucking glowed, like they were on fire or something.”

Eliot levitated his drink over from the table. “Jesus, Margo, you were probably just stoned,” he said, shooting back the contents of the glass, a pleasant, familiar warmth burning through his chest.

“Oh, I was definitely stoned,” she said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I saw it.”

Eliot sent his empty glass flying somewhere with a flick of his wrist, hearing it shatter a second later. What the fuck was she even talking about? Eliot snatched the cigarette from between her lips and took a drag. “Okay so, we’ve established that you’ve seen his eyes.” He blew out a smoke ring and laughed. “But have you seen his mouth?” 

Eliot shot her a look, and she snatched her cigarette back. “Whatever. Let a fire breathing monster melt your dick off.”

Eliot huffed out a laugh. “You’re so dramatic. We’re literal fucking magicians, Margo, did you ever consider that maybe whatever you saw was just a spell.”  
Margo pulled a face at that, a stream smoke pouring from her mouth. “He’s a First Year. He doesn’t know any spells.”

“Whatever.” Eliot sighed with his entire chest, too entirely fuzzy and stoned and warm to give a shit about… any of this. “Do you have anymore of those little green pills that let us see the future?”

“No,” she said, stretching out languidly, propping up her bare feet on the curve of Eliot’s knees. “And that’s not actually what they do.”

Eliot sighed impossibly harder, and let his eyes slide shut. “You’re no fun. I’m gonna go find someone fun to… have fun with,” he said, although he made no effort to actually move, and it wasn’t long before he was drifting away.

—

Across the room, Quentin sat talking to Alice Quinn. Eliot eyed him from his spot on the sofa, trying to work out exactly how full of shit he considered Margo to be. He couldn’t even be certain what she’d been trying to imply last night, but the words _fire breathing monster_ kept buzzing around his skull like a little pest he couldn’t quite swat away. 

By most reasonable standards, Quentin Coldwater appeared perfectly normal, if a little high strung and nerdy. But, fuck, wasn’t that what attracted Eliot to him in the first place? All that eager, passionate determination, the way he talked with his hands just as much as his mouth. And, oh, that mouth. Eliot could write poetry about the things he would do to that—

Eliot lit a cigarette and smoked it down halfway before stubbing it out. He crossed the room and said, “Alice. Can I… borrow Quentin for a minute?” uncertain what he was even doing but, luckily, he’d always been fantastic at bullshitting on the spot.

“Okay…” she said, eyeing him curiously, and then looking to Quentin, who was looking up at Eliot with a similar bewildered expression.

“Thank you,” Eliot said, and then took Quentin by the wrist, hauling him to his feet before he had so much as a chance to ask what the hell was going on.

“Eliot, what the hell?” Quentin staggered beside him when Eliot finally let go of his wrist.

Eliot said nothing, because his brain was still lagging behind in trying to come up with… something. Anything at all. Maybe he wasn’t so good at this. Whatever. He led Quentin into the dining room and sat down at the table.

“We have a situation,” Eliot said, still trying to work out exactly what that situation might be, and Quentin took the seat across from him.

“Okay…” His brows knitted together. “How can I help?”

“I have a date tonight,” Eliot blurted out, and, okay. Not his best. But he could probably make this work.

“A date…”

“Yes.” Shit fuck what was he _doing._ “A date.”

“Okay…”

“I need you to help me. Get dressed.” Quentin gave him a curious look. Eliot took a breath. “Pick out an outfit I mean.”

“Okay.” Quentin let a little laugh roll out of his chest. “Wouldn’t Margo be the better choice for… that.”

“No,” Eliot said, quite unconvincingly. “She’s seen… everything in my wardrobe, and I need a fresh set of eyes.”

Quentin pulled a face. “Okay. I’m… okay.”

Okay. Eliot sighed, and gave Quentin a smile. “Thank you,” he said, although he honestly had no idea what his end goal even was. Getting Coldwater alone and looking deep into his eyes? Trying not to seduce him before finding out if he was an actual fire breathing monster?

Yeah. That sounded right. And Eliot figured, what could possibly go wrong?

—

Quentin sat on the edge of Eliot’s bed, a pile of discarded vests strewn all over the floor at his feet. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “They all look the same to me.”

It had been twenty minutes, and so far all Eliot had managed to do was throw clothes at Quentin and decidedly not look him in the eyes too much. “It’s… fine,” he said, pulling his last vest from its hanger and tossing it to the floor. “This was a terrible idea. You can go if you want to.”

“No, I’m…” When Eliot turned around, Quentin was standing near the foot of the bed, holding one of the vests in his hands. Purple silk stitched with tiny flowers a shade or two darker than the fabric. “I like this one. But they’re… they’re all nice. You… you always look… nice, Eliot.”

Eliot’s stomach gave a little lurch, and he absolutely refused to acknowledge the feeling as anything resembling butterflies. “Thank you,” he said, crossing the distance and snatching up his discarded clothes, piling them all in the middle of his bed.

“Who’s the date with?” Quentin asked when he was finished, handing over the purple vest, and Eliot met his eyes head-on then.

“You wouldn’t know him. He—” _Don’t you dare say goes to another school, Waugh._ “He’s an alum. Graduated last year. So…”

“Oh. Well, I hope… you have a nice time,” Quentin said, and Eliot swore he saw something in his eyes then. But it wasn’t anything resembling fire. If he didn’t know better, he would have said it was something like jealousy.

“Thank you,” Eliot said, because what the fuck else was he supposed to say? And… oh god. Was he actually going to have to leave campus tonight to keep up this charade?

Realizing he’d accomplished absolutely nothing, Eliot tossed the vest down onto the bed with the others and clapped Quentin on the shoulder from behind. He’d only meant it as a friendly gesture, but the way Quentin reacted… it was as though Eliot had just set him on fire. He audibly gasped, wrenching away from the touch and nearly jumping out of his shoes. And when he turned to Eliot, there was a terror in his eyes.

“Shit, Q, I’m sorry. I was just—”

“I have to go,” Quentin spit, literally running to the door, all but slamming it shut behind him, leaving Eliot standing there feeling more than a little confused.

What… the fuck. Was Eliot actually much stronger than he realized? Was he suddenly incapable of initiating human contact without everything going to shit? The one thing he’d ever been good at other than magic—but… no. No. It was something more than that. The look in Quentin’s eyes… it was like he’d been found out. Like he’d been carrying around some terrible secret, and with one friendly touch it all had been exposed. Like maybe there was something to Margo’s suspicions after all.

Eliot let himself fall face-first down into the pile of vests on the bed, a scream bubbling up from his throat that he refused to let come out. He flopped over onto his back. He lay there for a very long time. Eventually, Margo came in, and Eliot groaned, tossing an arm over his eyes so he wouldn’t have to face her.

“What the hell are you doing?” She crawled up onto the bed and snatched his arm away. “It’s too early to mope. Come on. Don’t make me drink alone.”

Eliot sighed from the depths of his soul. “I fucked it all up, Bambi.”

She nudged him in the ribs. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Quentin—”

“Oh, jesus fuck—”

“Quentin,” Eliot repeated, a little louder this time. “Is probably never going to speak to me again. And I don’t really even know what I did? But it’s okay, because I still get to pretend to have a date tonight with a person that doesn’t exist.”

Margo eyed him incredulously, then flopped down on her back next to him. “I have no idea why you’re my best friend,” she said after a while, reaching over and threading their fingers together.

“Because I’m the only one you can stand,” Eliot said. “And I also just happen to be the only one who can stand you.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” she said, letting go of his hand, rolling over and resting her chin on his chest. “I’m sorry about Coldwater. You wanna talk about it?”

“No. I don’t wanna talk about it.” Eliot wanted to drink. Eliot wanted to smoke. Eliot wanted to do anything that wasn’t this. “Do you wanna go on a fake date with me tonight?”

“Maybe,” she said with a little smirk. “Or we could just put a ward on your door and get blasted in here for the rest of the night.”

“And that, Margo,” Eliot said, already levitating over the rolled joint on his nightstand, “is why we’re best friends.”

—

Days passed. Eliot didn’t talk to Quentin and hardly saw him at all, and after a while he couldn’t be certain which of them was actively avoiding the other. But on Saturday night they had a party, and Eliot tucked himself into a little nook in the corner, scanning the room until he spotted Quentin in the crowd.

Over the course of days, if Eliot had accomplished nothing else, he’d at least managed to convince himself that what happened had been entirely his fault. He was a creep, he had freaked Quentin out. Margo was wrong. Quentin Coldwater was absolutely not a fire breathing monster.

Margo draped herself in Eliot’s lap with a sigh. “Tell me you’re not sitting in a corner pining after Coldwater.”

“Okay,” Eliot said, his eyes firmly locked on the side of Quentin’s face. “I’m not sitting in a corner pining after Coldwater.”

She lit a joint, took a hit, passed it to Eliot. “So you ever gonna tell me what the fuck you did?”

“Nope,” Eliot said, taking a hit and drawing smoke deep into his lungs, letting it out with a tremendous sigh. 

“Whatever,” she laughed, shooting him that gorgeous, wicked smile of hers. “There’s plenty more First Year cock to go around. And who knows, if you get off your ass and stop being such a fucking bore you might even get some tonight.”

Eliot only hummed a response, watching as Quentin laughed at something Alice said, swallowing down a pang of something sharp and bitter. Margo was right, he knew, getting laid had never exactly been difficult for him. He could have a hungry mouth on his dick in ten minutes flat on a night like this, and more than one if that’s what he was in the mood for. He could have anything and anyone at all that he wanted.

Well… almost anyone. Anyone in the room but the one person he couldn’t seem to stop thinking of no matter how he tried. And the truth of it all was the saddest thing in the world: Eliot didn’t _want_ to fuck another eager little First Year tonight. Eliot just wanted to mope, and feel terrible, and hope against hope that Quentin would at least look him in the eye before the night was through. 

Jesus fuck, when had this become his life?

Eventually, he and Margo parted. The party went on around him. At some point in the night he lost sight of Quentin, and then a little while later the party was over, all those writhing bodies collapsing onto sofas and over the arms of chairs, sprawling out on rugs and benches and tables. And when everything was quiet, Eliot finally pulled himself out of his solitary corner, stumbling in the general direction of the kitchen.

Halfway there, he tripped over something in the dark. He did a tut in switched on the lights, looked down to find two bare feet sticking out of an open closet door. Following the feet up to the body, he was pretty sure that they belonged to Quentin, only… huh. It was the most curious thing. Eliot stepped a little closer just to be sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks.

The shape of the body was right, and the hair, though Eliot couldn’t see his face where he lay facedown snoring into the crook of his arm. But there was something on his back, something Eliot couldn’t quite make sense of. It was like… four brand new appendages, sticking straight up in a double V formation over his shoulders, only they were bursting with color even in the dim light, and—shit. Eliot’s brain caught up with his eyes just in time to realize what he was looking at.

They were wings, though not like the wings of a bird or a butterfly. They were giant fucking dragonfly wings. Eliot almost wanted to laugh, and had nearly convinced himself they were nothing more than a costume when one of them started to flutter. And then the other. And then the owner of the wings sucked in a sharp breath and popped up on his knees so quickly Eliot hardly had time to register it at all.

Quentin gazed up at Eliot, looking like he’d just seen a ghost. “Uh,” was the only word he could manage, his eyes flaring red in the light, his wings flapping frantically at his back before quickly tucking away out of sight. “Shit.”

“Hi,” Eliot drawled, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “Why are you sleeping in a closet, Q?”

Eliot probably should have asked about the wings, and the eyes, and if he was actually a fire-breathing dragonfly monster in disguise, but he figured this was already awkward enough. 

Quentin fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and he looked like he might actually cry. “So what are the odds of you turning around and acting like you never saw any of this?”

“I don’t know,” Eliot said. “Will you keep acting like I don’t exist and avoiding me at all costs if I do?”

Quentin pulled himself to his feet, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who’s been avoiding me.”

“I’m not the one who—” Eliot huffed out a laugh. “I so do not want to do this right now, Quentin.”

“Then don’t.” Quentin shot him a look that said nothing short of, _please get the hell out of my way,_ and Eliot sighed hard. 

“Look. I’m sorry about the other day. But in my defense I didn’t realize you were… a dragonfly person at the time.”

Quentin groaned, shooting him an incredulous look. “That’s not even a—jesus, Eliot, can you just move so I can go hide in my room?”

“No.” Eliot realized he was being a terrible person, and probably an even worse friend, but he couldn’t just… let this go. “You still haven’t answered why you were sleeping in a closet.”

“Because… alcohol makes me feel weird, okay.”

“Because you’re a dragonfly person?”

“Eliot.” Quentin actually rolled his eyes. “Please.”

The distress on Quentin’s face grew very real then, and Eliot could feel his heart sinking in his chest. “Fine,” he said, moving aside so Quentin could step out of the closet. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said, stepping out and avoiding Eliot’s eyes. “But for what it’s worth, I do want to talk to you, Eliot.”

“Good,” Eliot said, his pulse picking up a little. “I want to talk to you too.”

Quentin touched his hair, a nervous little gesture, meeting Eliot’s gaze. “Could you just… maybe not tell anyone about this?”

Eliot nodded. “You don’t have to worry, Q. Your secret is safe with me.”

—

Eliot and Margo walked hand-in-hand through the quad. Margo said, “Tried to come to your room last night, but I couldn’t get through your ward.”

Eliot puffed on his cigarette. “Sorry,” he said. “I… needed to be alone.”

“Was he cute?” she asked, and let go of his hand, flopping down on a bench.

He flicked away his cigarette and took a seat next to her. “No, I… actually needed to be alone.”

“Oh…” The tone of her voice made Eliot want to fly away. Literally. What was magic for if not fleeing from awkward conversations with your best friend, right? “Coldwater’s got you pretty messed up, huh?”

Eliot groaned, pulled the flask out of his pocket and took a swig. “No, it’s… we talked. We’re… fine. I think.”

Margo narrowed her eyes. “What are you not telling me?”

Eliot gave her a playful nudge. “Nothing, Bambi,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it, but she just kept on looking at him with those eyes.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re shit at lying?” She snatched his flask and took a drink. “Whatever. I still say sticking your dick in that is probably a terrible—”

“He’s not a monster,” Eliot spit, just a hair more forcefully than he’d intended.

She handed back the flask and pulled a face. “You know I’m just trying to look out for my best friend, right?”

Eliot sighed hard, tucking the flask back into his pocket. “I know. But you don’t have to worry about me, okay?” He tossed an arm around her shoulders and let out a little laugh. “Especially not when it comes to high-strung super nerds like Coldwater.”

She leaned into his embrace with a little sigh of her own, and Eliot felt something that tasted like guilt bubbling in the back of his throat. But it’s not like he’d lied to her, at least not in a way that he could help. Honestly, what was he supposed to say? He’d promised to keep Quentin’s secret, and _he_ couldn’t even be sure what Quentin was at the moment, human or monster or dragonfly or some combination of the three. All he had to go on was _wings_ and _weird flashy eyes_ and _he’s so soft and so pretty I don’t care what he is I just want to touch him everywhere he’ll let me._

Eventually, the two of them made their way to class, Introduction to Horomancy followed by Practical Applications. When the day was done, Eliot’s head was buzzing like an old television set seconds after being clicked off, and all he wanted to do was sit in silence with a drink or ten for a few blissful hours, and maybe think of something clever or stupid or terrible to say to Quentin in the process.

He’d only just started making his first drink when someone seized him by the shoulder. “We need to talk,” Quentin said when Eliot spun around, and immediately he was being dragged away to a more secluded corner of the Cottage.

“Did you tell someone about me?” Quentin asked, and Eliot could literally feel the manic energy pouring off him.

Eliot narrowed his eyes. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Quentin’s eyes darted around the room. He was practically bouncing out of his shoes. “I just… I feel like everyone’s looking at me.”

Eliot let his eyes scan over Quentin’s face and, jesus, he looked terrible. “You’re sweating,” he said, giving him a little smile. “Maybe try and look a little less like you just committed a felony.”

“This isn’t funny, Eliot. No one…” His voice went very low, and he leaned in, looking deep into Eliot’s eyes. “No one can ever know about me, okay? It’s bad enough that you—”

“Tell me what you are,” Eliot said, his expression turning serious. “Please.”

For a moment, Eliot thought Quentin was going to cry. Or maybe just punch him in the face. But then he went up on his toes, and whispered, “Meet me in my room in five minutes,” before running away and up the stairs.

Eliot could feel his skin buzzing after he’d gone, the phantom of Quentin’s lips like a real and solid weight against his ear. He looked at his watch. He made a drink and shot it back. He counted down exactly four minutes and thirty seconds before ascending the stairs to the second floor.

Quentin’s door was locked but not warded, and Eliot knocked. Waited. After a handful of seconds, the lock clicked and the door creaked open. Quentin was standing in the middle of the room when Eliot stepped inside, and with a flick of his wrist the door slammed shut behind him.

“Impressive for a First Year,” Eliot said, his voice quavering just a little when it hit him that Quentin had his shirt off. And that his wings were fluttering gently behind him. They appeared much larger than they had last night, and they were absolutely swimming with color. Jewel tones, brilliant purples and blues and greens, veined through with hints of shimmering gold.

Quentin took a breath. “I’m a sylph,” he said on a great exhale.

Eliot swallowed. “I don’t know what that means.”

Quentin’s face twitched nervously, a little blush staining his cheeks pink. “It’s, uh… a type of faerie. Technically. From Fillory.”

Eliot couldn’t help the laugh that spilled out of him then. “You’re from a children's book?”

Quentin groaned, and at his back his wings drooped a little. “It’s not—Fillory is a real place.”

“Okay.” Eliot’s head was spinning, racing at a million thoughts per second, and he had to sit down on the bed. “So… okay. You’re from Fillory.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you… here?”

“It’s a really… long and complicated story.”

“Of course it is.” Eliot took a breath, watched the colors shifting in Quentin’s brilliant wings. “So if you’re so afraid of everyone knowing you’re a…”

“Sylph.”

“Yeah. That. If no one can know, why did I find you wings-out last night?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” Quentin said, taking a seat next to Eliot on the bed. “The alcohol made me really woozy. And it’s… super uncomfortable keeping these things tucked away all day. I just wanted to stretch a little, and the closet was right there, and then…”

“Oh…” This close, Eliot could actually hear Quentin’s wings, a gentle flutter-buzz that tickled the air around them. And he could feel them too, like they were humming with an ancient, hidden magic. “Well, good thing it was me who found you then, hm?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, sounding just this side of uncertain.

Eliot turned to get a better look at his wings up close, and they were—jesus, they were _gorgeous_. Colorful and delicate and, in spite of how rigid they appeared, Eliot couldn’t help but wonder if they would be soft to the touch. Soft like Quentin, like he knew Quentin’s mouth would be, like every other part of him. They were—fuck. Did Eliot find this hot? Oh no. Oh fuck, Quentin’s wings were _so hot._

“Eliot?” Quentin’s voice carried in through the fog. “Are you all right?”

Eliot turned his eyes from Quentin’s wings to his face and… jesus fuck. Eliot was actually blushing. “Yeah, I’m…” He forced a playful laugh. “This is just a lot to take in, Q.”

“Sorry,” Quentin said very softly. And Eliot felt utterly consumed by the softness of everything he was. His face and his words and the heat spilling off of him.

Eliot laughed again and did his best to focus. “You don’t have to apologize for being yourself,” he said. “But I do feel the need to warn you that Margo saw your flashy eye thing and might think you’re a monster now.”

“Shit,” Quentin said, ducking his head and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Sometimes I can't control it when something startles me. Or… I get excited.”

Oh. “What did Margo say that startled you?” Eliot asked. “Or… excited you.”

Quentin took a breath, and Eliot could see the blush forming on his skin. “She, um… said your name.”

_Oh._ It was only in that moment that it truly hit Eliot what was happening: they were alone together and sitting on a bed. They were alone together and sitting on a bed and Quentin had his shirt off. They were alone together and sitting on a bed and Quentin had his shirt off and had just confessed to getting excited at hearing Eliot’s name. And all he could think was, _Oh. The things I would do to you. I’d take you apart with my fingers and my mouth and my hands. With my tongue and my teeth and my dick. I’d make it so fucking good for you, baby._

When he finally spoke, what he said was… not that. “That’s… good to know.” And, oh god. Eliot was actually _nervous._ He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him feel this way, let alone someone he’d been making plans for, someone he literally could not wait to get alone.

“I, uh…” Quentin started, fidgeting a little. “I should go.”

“Quentin,” Eliot said gently. “This is your room.”

“Right.” Quentin exhaled hard, laughing nervously as he touched his hair. “Are you… gonna tell Margo?”

“No,” Eliot said without hesitation. “Not unless you want me to. I meant what I said last night.” And because he couldn’t help himself, Eliot shot Quentin a suggestive little smirk. “I’m excellent at keeping secrets.”

Quentin stared at him with his wide eyes and parted mouth and god, Eliot wanted to kiss him so fucking badly. “I’ll tell you why I’m here,” he said, “if you want to know. But I should warn you it’s… a pretty fucked up and horrifying story.”

“I think I wanna know everything about you, Q,” he said, not intending for it to come out sounding quite so tender. Not understanding how a First Year boy that he hardly knew could _make_ him feel so fucking tender. “Let me make you dinner tonight. Just the two of us.”

A smile tugged at Quentin’s pretty mouth. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that,” he said, the tips of his wings sticking up over his shoulders giving a happy little flutter. And his eyes, gently, flashing a brilliant shade of coppery red.

—

Eliot had a problem. Well, okay, Eliot definitely had more than just the one. But right now his problem was this: he had no idea what faeries or sylphs or anything other than humans and a few very specific animals ate. And as he stood in the kitchen, pondering his choices, it occurred to him that he’d never actually seen Quentin eat a meal. So.

He decided to play it safe, go for something classically American. Something he would have eaten back in the days of his Indiana youth: steak and potatoes and a decadent salad. But as he was crumbling way too much bacon over the lettuce he thought... fuck. What if faeries don’t eat meat? Dates were not supposed to be this stressful, if that’s even what this was. Dates weren’t supposed to be stressful at all. On the rare occasion Eliot even bothered cooking for a boy, he certainly didn’t spend this much time—or any time, honestly—worrying about his dietary needs.

“You’re sweating,” Margo said, eyeing him from across the counter. “And are those candles I saw on the table?”

Eliot gave her a tight smile. “Bambi. What did we talk about?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your cock in a knot, I’m leaving. So is everybody else. We’re gonna crash Hoberman’s party in the tree house.” She gave him a serious look. “Just be careful, all right?”

“Don’t worry.” He rounded the counter and kissed the top of her head. “Tell you all about it tomorrow.”

Margo shot him a grin as she pulled away. “You’d better.”

Alone in the kitchen, Eliot had to force himself to keep moving or else he was going to panic. Panicking was absolutely not an option. It was bad enough he could feel the sweat rolling down the back of his neck. It was bad enough that his hands were _shaking._ He cast a spell to keep the steak and potatoes temporarily frozen in time at their optimal temperatures, then went to the dining room to finish setting the table. He put a bottle of wine on the table for himself, and a bottle of sparkling water for Quentin. He went to the kitchen to make up their plates, and when he carried them out Quentin was standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” Eliot said, smiling, pulse picking up as he set the plates on the table.

“Hey,” Quentin said, stepping nearer, looking… god. Looking like a dream. Fucking perfect in a dark red sweater, and just thinking about what he was hiding underneath made Eliot’s heart jump inside his chest.

Eliot pulled out Quentin’s chair. “Have a seat,” he said, and their eyes met in the dim light as Quentin came over and sat down.

Quentin’s hair looked soft. Everything about Quentin was just. So. Fucking soft. And Eliot had to pull himself away from the urge to get his hands in that hair. He sparked the candles to life with a flourish of his fingers. He poured himself a glass of wine and filled Quentin’s glass with water before taking his seat.

“This looks… really good,” Quentin said with a smile, his eyes darting between Eliot and the food, and Eliot let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he laughed. “I wasn’t sure if you ate meat, or… anything honestly.”

“Earth food is amazing,” Quentin said, already stuffing a bite of steak into his face, and looking unreasonably adorable while doing so. “You’re a really good cook.”

Eliot grinned, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his wine. “I concur,” he said, contentedly watching Quentin eat for a moment before starting in on his own plate.

He hadn’t taken more than two bites before his stomach started to do… something. And that something was definitely butterflies, fluttering so furiously against his insides he worried he might actually burst right there at the table. He set down his knife and fork and picked up his wine, drinking it probably a little too quickly as Quentin continued shoveling food into his mouth.

He didn’t pause to say a word the entire time he was eating, and Eliot didn’t dream of interrupting him making his happy little sounds and _moaning_ around his fork. Eliot was content just to let him be. And to watch him. And to get very drunk while doing so. And by the time Quentin’s plate was empty, Eliot’s head was feeling delightfully fuzzy and light.

“Fuck.” Quentin laughed as his knife and fork clattered down onto his empty plate. “That was so good, Eliot.”

Eliot smiled, a drunken flush washing over his cheeks. “I can see that.”

“Sorry.” Quentin sighed, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “That was probably really rude of me.”

“Don’t be silly.” Eliot shot him a soft look, a warmth spreading through him that had little to do with the wine. “It makes me happy to see you happy.”

“Still…” Quentin ducked his head, looking adorably bashful. “You wanted to talk and instead I… did that.”

“I wanted to feed you,” Eliot assured him, feeling so fucking giddy it actually made him sick. “Now we can talk. We have all night, Q, don’t worry.”

“Okay…” Quentin met Eliot’s eyes, his expression turning grave. “Like I said, it’s not a… happy story.”

“Take all the time you need,” Eliot said, refilling his glass, a tiny coil of dread looping in his belly.

Quentin nodded, taking a sip of his water, drawing a handful of breaths in and out before opening his mouth to speak. “When I was growing up, I always wanted to come to Earth,” he said. “In my village there were so many stories. It sounded… magical. Which I guess sounds funny coming from someone who’s literally made of magic.”

Eliot shot him a little smile, waiting for him to continue.

“But I didn’t come here on an adventure.” Quentin’s voice quavered a little. “One day, a beast came to my village. He…” A little sob broke out of his chest, and Eliot felt it in his own. “I couldn’t see his face. It was all covered in these… moths. He was so scary, Eliot. And he just… started killing everyone. He killed my father, he…”

Eliot had never wanted to comfort someone so terribly in his life. He shot back a giant gulp of wine and tried to remember how to breathe, uncertain what he should say, if anything at all. Jesus. Quentin cried softly into his hands, dabbing his tears away with his napkin when he managed to pull himself together.

“I don’t know if anyone else got away. I was only saved because a… a witch who said she was the beast’s sister came and tried to stop him. It was too late, but… she took me away. And she said her brother was trying to harvest all the power from every magical creature for himself. And that he would never stop. So…”

Quentin buried his face in his hands again, and Eliot just… Eliot didn’t know what to do. “Q, I’m… I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, feeling utterly helpless.

Quentin lifted his head, wiping at his eyes. “The beast’s sister sent me here. She said I would be safe, and that her brother wouldn’t come looking for me as long as I was quiet. And just… pretended to be a clueless First Year. The only person who knows other than her is the Dean. And, well… now you.”

Eliot took a breath, a deep one, as much as his lungs could hold before pushing it out. “Is there… anything I can do for you, Q?”

Quentin shook his head, gave a little shrug. “Keep my secret.”

“Done,” Eliot said, meeting his gaze head-on, hoping in his bones that Quentin could see just how serious he was. “Q, I promise. You are safe with me.”

“I…” Quentin fidgeted with his napkin, averting his gaze. “I feel safe with you, Eliot. I don’t know why,” he said with a little laugh. “I hardly know you, but…”

Eliot’s chest went all fluttery then, like the butterflies in his stomach had wriggled their way into his veins and pumped straight into his heart. And he still didn’t know what to say. And he felt like an idiot for it. So he just took another breath and asked, “What else can I do for you?”

“Um...” Quentin laughed, sniffled, tucking his hair behind his ear in that ridiculously endearing and nervous way of his. “Help me to not be so on edge and freaked out all the time?”

“Well, now, you’ve come to the right place for that, Quentin, because I will have you know that stress-relief is my specialty.” The smile that he gave Quentin was warm, and just the tiniest bit suggestive. And he knew he shouldn’t be thinking about sex at all when Quentin just told him… that. And he wasn’t. Mostly. But. “We know alcohol is probably a no-go for you, but… maybe we can try a few other things.”

Quentin said, “You’re talking about drugs,” and Eliot scolded himself before he even had the thought. _Don’t you dare think about sticking your dick inside of him tonight, Waugh, jesus fucking—_

“Yeah,” Eliot said. “I’m talking about drugs. Or, well… maybe just some weed? Not the magical stuff, I… think that might be risky. But only if you want to, of course.”

Quentin nodded, looking almost relieved at the idea. “Yeah. I do. Just… if I start… acting weird…”

“Then I’ll be there for you,” Eliot said, not a hint of anything but sincerity in his voice. “But you shouldn’t worry. We have the whole place to ourselves tonight. And we’ll lock the door and ward it tight. I won’t let anybody see your wings. Or the… flashy eye thing.”

“Okay,” Quentin said with a laugh, but then a hint of confusion dawned on his face. “Wait. Where is everyone else?”

“Party at Hoberman’s,” Eliot said with a shrug. He figured he could leave out the part where he threatened to literally curse every last Physical Kid if they so much as breathed in the direction of the Cottage tonight.

“Oh,” Quentin said, grinning in a way that made his eyes go all squinty. “That’s… convenient.”

“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a fantastic party planner.” Eliot pushed back from the table. “How about dessert?”

“I think I might explode if I eat another bite right now, Eliot.” Quentin actually looked distressed at the offer of more food, and Eliot laughed.

“Okay. We can save dessert for later,” Eliot said, taking one last sip of his wine, feeling all prickly and warm every time he let his eyes drift over to Quentin. “Come on. Let’s go get stoned.”

—

Eliot shut his bedroom door, locked it tightly, and doubled up on his wards. That last part was definitely an unnecessary step, but still, he wanted to make Quentin feel safe. Turning away from his spell work, his stomach did some truly elaborate acrobatics as he realized… shit. He wanted to make Quentin feel _safe._ This was definitely going to be a problem. 

This was definitely already a very big problem.

And Eliot’s problems only seemed to be piling up. Quentin had already stripped off his sweater, and was stretching his wings out languidly behind him, the tips waving happily as he flopped down onto the bed. Onto Eliot’s bed. With his shirt off and his gorgeous colorful shimmering soft-looking wings out, and a pretty pink blush staining his cheeks, dappling his chest, trailing all the way down to the smooth skin of his belly.

Eliot had to force himself to focus. On something other than the half naked magical creature from another world watching him from across the room. He went to his stash box and pulled out a baggy of Josh Hoberman’s finest non-magical weed and started rolling a joint, which he fucked up twice because his stupid traitor fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. And it wasn’t helping that his stupid traitor dick wouldn’t let him forget the half naked magical creature from another world watching him from across the room. And that said magical creature was Quentin Coldwater, the First Year boy he’d been dying to get inside of for weeks on end. And that if he’d wanted him badly before discovering this apparent new fetish for colorful dragonfly wings, well…

Eliot sat down on the bed just a little too close, and his thigh brushed right up against Quentin’s when he turned to him. And Quentin just… smiled. And watched Eliot like he was waiting for an answer to some impossible question. And Eliot’s brain went all fuzzy for a second, and all he could do was breathe in, and breathe out, and watch Quentin watching him until he realized he was definitely making this weird.

Eliot held up the joint and just… focused on the task at hand. Which was getting a gorgeous faerie boy stoned. “I take it you’ve never done this before,” he said.

“No,” Quentin shook his head, watching as Eliot sparked the joint with the tips of his fingers. “I’ve seen you do it though.”

Eliot inhaled deeply, exhaled a thin wisp of smoke. “Okay, well… maybe you should still let me help.”

“Okay…” Quentin watched him with wide, curious eyes, watched the smoke rising up toward the ceiling. “How do you mean?”

Just act like a person, Eliot told himself. Just calm down and maybe your traitor heart will stop pounding so fast. And maybe your dick will stop screaming about how warm Quentin’s skin is this close. And maybe you’ll stop thinking about how you’re absolutely not seducing him tonight, yet the thing you’re about to propose would generally only have one goal in mind.

“Do you know what shotgunning is?” Eliot asked, taking another hit to keep the flame going.

Quentin shook his head, and Eliot smiled.

“Okay, um… it’s easy.” Eliot laughed, almost managed to make it sound casual. “I’ll take a hit and… exhale the smoke into your mouth. And then you just breathe it in.”

Eliot watched Quentin’s throat work as he swallowed, hitting the joint again just to prove how unaffected he was by this development.

“Okay,” Quentin said. “So I just… sit here.”

“You just sit there,” Eliot said, and… oh god. Okay. Oh fuck. He could definitely keep a straight face when saying this next part. He was a human being with self control. “And… open your mouth.”

Quentin’s eyes flashed a series of colors then, red and orange and gold, like Eliot had set a fire going inside him with his words. He nodded, and parted his lips, and at his back his wings seemed to stiffen. And everything about him was just so bright and shining and alive, Eliot could hardly believe something so beautiful could exist. He wanted to touch Quentin’s wings more than he’d ever wanted anything in his whole life, he was pretty certain. More than food or sex or magic or drugs. More than—

“Are you okay?” Quentin asked, shooting him a soft and open look, and it was only then that Eliot realized he’d spaced out at least long enough for the flame on the joint to fizzle away.

“Yeah, I’m…” He forced a little laugh, blushing. Again. Like a goddamn teenager with a crush and no clue what to do about it. “Sorry. It’s been a… long day.”

“It’s okay,” Quentin said, so softly Eliot thought he might melt. “I’m ready… whenever you are.”

Eliot took a breath and pushed it out. Remember who the fuck you are, he told himself. You’re Eliot Waugh. You literally eat First Year boys for breakfast. So what if this particular one just happens to be a faerie in hiding. He focused all his energy on lighting the joint again and, amazingly, his fingers were calm and steady. He took a hit and looked to Quentin, who was just sitting there all eager and lithe with his wings shimmering brightly and his mouth hanging open. Like he was ready for fucking anything Eliot wanted to give to him. Anything at all. _Anything._

Holding the smoke in his lungs, Eliot moved his body closer, leaning in, shutting his eyes. Their mouths were so close together then, Eliot could feel Quentin’s lips ghosting against his own. Could feel his breath moving, waiting, trembling a little in anticipation. Could feel… how this almost felt like a kiss. Almost. How this might as well have been. And as he began to exhale, and the smoke moved out from between his lips and into Quentin’s lungs, Eliot swore that for one perfect, blissful second he felt his heart go perfectly still in his chest.

And then it was over. And Eliot was opening his eyes and pulling away, the phantom of Quentin’s lips on his lips, his heart fluttering away under his ribs once more. And Quentin was perfectly still. He didn’t even blink, his mouth sealed shut like he was trying to keep the smoke inside forever. But then he started laughing. And coughing. And there was hardly any smoke that came out, because it had been a pretty tiny hit to begin with, but Eliot still worried that maybe he’d given him too much.

Eliot almost patted him on the back before remembering… wings. “Hey,” he said, touching the bare slope of Quentin’s shoulder instead, telling his dick to shut up the moment their skin made contact. “You okay?”

Quentin hacked into his fist, and then laughed a little more, and his wings began flapping so rapidly Eliot wondered if he might actually take flight. “That was…” he said, struggling to catch his breath. “Wow…” He looked to Eliot with his big, wanting eyes and said. “Will you do it again?”

Eliot pulled his hand away, because touching Quentin’s shoulder right now was a very very very bad idea. “You liked that?”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know how I feel… but it was… nice.”

Eliot realized Quentin wasn’t talking about the weed. There’s no way he’d be feeling that just yet. “Maybe just… one more…” Eliot said, his eyes flitting between Quentin’s mouth and the magnificent stretch of his wings behind him. “And then… we’ll see how you feel.”

Quentin gave a little half-smile and Eliot sparked another flame, took a long drag on the joint for himself and then another smaller one for Quentin. Between the wine and the weed, he was feeling pleasantly hazy and warm, and also so goddamn horny he thought he might be losing his mind. Willing his dick to just… stay the fuck down, Eliot brought his mouth to Quentin’s again. Their lips brushed as Eliot exhaled, and it was all that he could do to not steal that hungry mouth in a searing kiss, to kiss Quentin until he was breathless and begging. 

And Quentin… oh. Quentin looked at Eliot like he _wanted_ to be kissed as he was pulling away, and Eliot had to take a moment to remind himself why he was even resisting to begin with. The plume of smoke that Quentin coughed out this time was a little bigger, and his wings drooped down as a laugh slipped out of his mouth, like finally he’d started to relax.

Eliot hit the joint again, once, twice. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Quentin just kept on laughing. “But I think I’m happy? I feel really happy, Eliot.”

“That’s good.” Eliot pulled himself to his feet, went over and stubbed the joint out in the ashtray on his nightstand just to give himself something to do other than blushing and wanting. “It probably hasn’t kicked in yet, so just… sit with it for a minute.”

“Okay,” Quentin said. And then, after a stretch of silence, “You know… you can kiss me if you want.”

Eliot froze in place, immediately convincing himself he’d heard that all wrong. “Q, I—”

“You wanna kiss me, don’t you?”

Across the distance, Eliot swore he could still feel the heat of him. And fuck, if that’s how he felt on the outside, Eliot thought, just imagine how he’d feel from the inside. Tight and warm and soft and perfect. Eliot swallowed, and could physically feel his dick frowning in his pants with the knowledge of what he was about to say. “Q, um… maybe we should talk about this when you’re not stoned.”

“I am not stoned,” Quentin said, punctuating his words with a truly ridiculous giggle, his wings vibrating at such a frantic pace he started to lift up off the bed this time. “I’m happy.”

“Of course faeries are lightweights,” Eliot said under his breath, watching Quentin flutter up to the ceiling, and honestly...he was thankful for the distraction. And he’d be lying if he said the sight of him flapping up there wasn’t absolutely hilarious. 

“Okay, Quentin,” he said with a laugh. “Maybe you should just flutter back down here and try to enjoy the buzz.”

Quentin flitted over to the far corner of the room with a laugh, the tips of his wings knocking against the ceiling as he went. “But I am enjoying it,” he said. “It’s been so long since I used my wings like this.”

“Okay, just…” Eliot flopped down onto the bed with a sigh. “Be careful.”

Eliot’s room was pretty tiny, but Quentin made the most of it. And for a handful of blissful, mindless moments, Eliot just… let him. He lay back against the headboard and watched as Quentin flapped from one corner to another, laughing his pretty little head off as he went. And his wings were… they were mesmerizing, a flaring rainbow of color bursting from his shoulders, so delicate and yet so strong Eliot could hardly believe his eyes.

When Quentin came down from the ceiling, he flopped face-first onto the bed. “I really like Earth drugs,” he said, looking up at Eliot with a grin stretched across his face, his eyes so narrow they might not have even been open at all.

_Just wait until you try cocaine,_ Eliot thought, and almost said it too, but then realized that might not be the best thing to say to someone who got so high off two hits of weed he literally touched the ceiling. “I’m glad you’re having a good time,” he said, giving him a smile that was soft and sincere.

Quentin did two things then that made Eliot feel absolutely feral. His wings slumped down on his shoulders completely, draping along his arms and down against the line of his spine, like he’d been holding a breath and finally he was letting it out. And they were so close on the bed, he turned his face and nuzzled right into the meaty part of Eliot’s thigh, and though there was a layer of fabric between them, Eliot felt it as surely as a flame setting his skin alight.

“I really wish that you would kiss me,” Quentin mumbled, and Eliot was pretty sure he was being fucked with, or tested. This was definitely a test. Or the cruelest cosmic joke his dick could possibly imagine.

He bunched his hands up in his lap, because the urge to get his fingers in Quentin’s soft long perfect hair was entirely overwhelming. “Q, you’re… high. For what I assume is the first time in your life. I’m not going to—”

“I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a lot longer than just now,” Quentin said, lifting his face with a dopey smile. “I thought when you asked me to have dinner you were going to.”

“You… said some pretty heavy stuff at dinner, Q.” Eliot suddenly felt such bone-deep sadness, he thought he was going to cry. “I don’t want to… take advantage. When you’re this vulnerable.”

Quentin let out a contented sigh. “So you do want to kiss me.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said. “I do want to kiss you.”

Quentin giggled again. “Good,” he said, and, oh god. Eliot thought he was going to be sick with what that did to his insides. “The you should do it.”

“Q…” _What the fuck are you doing, Waugh?_ Eliot scolded himself inside. _Just kiss him already! Kiss him kiss him oh my god fucking kiss him he is soft he is so so soft and he would probably let you touch his wings and—_

Quentin pulled himself up to kneel at Eliot’s side, curving a hand around his knee gently, so gently. “Eliot,” he said, his wings perking up behind him. “You wouldn’t be taking advantage.”

Eliot let his eyes sweep up the line of Quentin’s body, the blush dappled on his chest, the bow of his mouth, coming to land on his hooded, bloodshot eyes. And every part of him was screaming, screaming just to pounce. But by some miracle he didn’t. “Come to me,” he said, “when you’re sober. Okay? And I’ll…”

“Kiss me?” The way he said it so sweetly… fuck. Eliot had to choke back a whimper rising in his throat.

“Yes.”

Eliot’s voice came out all air, and he wondered if Quentin could see how terribly he wanted, or if maybe he could feel it. Quentin pulled his hand away and clasped it with the other in his lap, letting out a tremendous sigh.

“Okay,” he said, another adorable grin spreading itself over his face. “I think I wanna try more drugs.”

Eliot laughed softly. More drugs sounded like a truly spectacular idea, but maybe not just yet for the lightweight faerie in his bed. “Okay, Timothy Leary,” he teased, and Quentin shot him a curious look. “Maybe we can finish that joint. You can try doing it yourself this time maybe.”

Quentin pouted at him for a moment, an unreasonably adorable expression, but then he nodded his head in agreement, and Eliot reached over to fish out the remnants of the joint from the ashtray. Eliot lit it, took a hit, passed it to Quentin, watching fondly as he brought it to his lips and mirrored the way he’d seen Eliot do it. Quentin exhaled, coughed, Eliot laughed. They passed the joint back and forth until it was gone.

Quentin lay down on his belly with a giggle and a sigh when they were finished. “This is really nice,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Eliot said softly, and he could see that Quentin was already drifting, so he shut his eyes and let his mind fade away into the gentle haze of being stoned.

Eliot didn’t know how long he’d slept when he came to hours later, but when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

—

The next morning, Margo flopped down next to Eliot on the sofa. “So,” she said, her voice dripping in that way it always did when she thought she was about to hear something juicy. “Tell me everything.”

Eliot lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “We had dinner, we got high, we slept together,” he said, knowing exactly how that sounded, hoping she would just let him leave it at that, knowing in his bones that she wouldn’t.

“No shit,” she said. “Details, El. You’ve been pining after that sweet First Year ass for weeks.”

Eliot shot her a sideways glance. She would never let him live this one down. “We… literally slept together, okay. Next to each other in my bed. Nothing happened.”

She huffed out a little laugh and Eliot thought, here we go. “Wait. You’re telling me you had Quentin Coldwater in your bed, and you… went to sleep.”

Eliot prayed that some monster would rise up out of the earth at that very moment and swallow him whole. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Bambi.”

“Jesus,” she said, lighting a cigarette of her own, letting a thin coil of smoke fall out of her mouth. “You really do like this one.”

Eliot sighed hard, straightened his back, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray just a little too hard. “Look,” he said. “I’m pretty sure he’d never actually been high before. I didn’t wanna take advantage.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?” 

“Bambi,” he drawled, slumping way down and resting his head on her shoulder. “I love you, but I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“Whatever,” she said with a sigh. “Let me know when you’re ready to pull your head out of your nutsack and start acting like my best friend again.”

She finished her cigarette and disappeared upstairs. Eliot went to the bar and made himself a gin martini for breakfast, then sat on the window seat sipping it slowly and decidedly not sulking. He was also very much not panicking that Quentin would change his mind about the whole kissing thing in the sober light of morning. And he was absolutely not twisting himself into knots wondering if it was too soon to go looking for him when Quentin was almost certainly tucked away in a classroom pretending to be bad at First Year magic.

Eliot finished his martini and was on his way back over to the bar to make another when the front door creaked open, and Quentin walked in with Alice in tow, and Eliot’s heart skipped several beats in the process of watching them flop down on one of the sofas without sparing him so much as a passing glance. So. Okay. That was apparently how he was going to play this. Eliot abandoned his plans for drink number two and went outside to smoke on the patio, and, yeah. He was probably sulking now.

He finished his cigarette and took a couple pulls from his bottomless flask. And just when he was about to start feeling truly pathetic, the backdoor opened and Quentin stepped out.

“Hey,” he said, closing the door behind him. “That was… probably really rude. I’m sorry.”

Eliot gave him a tight smile when he took the seat across from him at the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.” Quentin tucked his hair behind his ear, his expression tense and flustered. “I just… got really nervous when I saw you in there, and I didn’t know what to say so I…”

Quentin let out a nervous laugh, and Eliot couldn’t help but smile. “You were gone when I woke up,” he said, hating how needy he sounded, hating even more how needy he _felt._

“I’m sorry about that too.”

“Don’t be,” Eliot said, and he meant it. “But… I do hope you enjoyed yourself last night.”

“I did,” Quentin said, and he was already blushing, and Eliot could see the grin he was just barely suppressing. “But we never did that that dessert.”

Eliot felt a shiver run through him, and apparently butterflies in his stomach were just going to be a thing he was dealing with literally always now. “Didn’t we? Oh, well… I guess you’ll just have to let me make it up to you then.”

Quentin said, “That would be amazing,” with a soft little smile, and Eliot could feel himself melting into his chair.

“Tonight,” Eliot said, their eyes locking firmly together across the distance as Quentin’s grin spread over his face.

“Tonight would be amazing.”

—

Eliot busied himself putting the finishing touches on their dessert, trying not to focus on the way Quentin’s eyes followed him around the kitchen, absolutely refusing to let his mind wander to what might—or might not—come after.

“I present to you,” Eliot said, setting two perfectly decadent plates down onto the island, “the most enchanting chocolate cake you’ll ever have the pleasure of putting in your mouth. Also, probably the most enchanted.”

Quentin poked his with the tines of his fork. “Is it drugs?”

“It is not, Quentin.” Eliot laughed, taking the seat next to him. “Well, I guess that depends on your definition of drugs. But… it won’t get you high. Probably.”

Quentin smiled, letting the edge of his fork cut through the cake, bringing one delicate bite up to his pretty mouth and taking it inside. And the noise that he made to show his approval, Eliot felt it down between his legs. Jesus, if he liked food this much… how would he feel about all the other pleasurable things Eliot wanted to give him?

“It’s good,” Quentin drawled, sighing with his entire body and setting down his fork, turning to face Eliot. “You know, I’m… sober now.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, meeting Quentin’s soft gaze head-on, his pulse going absolutely wild in his neck. “You are.”

Quentin’s hand found Eliot’s knee, gave it a squeeze, and he just sat there like he was waiting to be devoured. Like he couldn’t find the words to ask for it now, but his eyes and his body were begging. And Eliot thought, okay. You can do this. Kissing boys is easy. You’ve done it a thousand times, a million. You are Eliot Waugh, professional goddamn boy kisser.

Eliot said, “Stand up,” and Quentin did almost at once. And Eliot just… forced his mind to go blank, willed his body to move. He got to his feet and took Quentin by the wrist, took him to the other side of the island and pushed him up against the edge of it. And for a moment they just stood there staring at each other, and breathing, and Eliot’s blanked-out mind came roaring back to life right along with his heart.

Quentin turned his face upward, his expression soft and open and ready, and Eliot took it in his hands, his hands that were shaking like he’d never been kissed before, maybe like he’d never been touched. He thumbed at Quentin’s bottom lip and felt a shiver run through him, and as he leaned in the whole world around them dissolved into beautiful nothing. There was only Quentin’s breath and his heat and his perfect, pretty mouth. His soft hair that Eliot got his fingers into just as he was slotting their lips together. The kick of desire down between his legs as they slowly melted together.

He crowded into Quentin, pressing the lines of their bodies tightly together, shoving at him with his hips as he licked into the warmth of his mouth. Quentin moaned, bunching up the back of Eliot’s shirt in his hands, pliant and soft and eager under Eliot’s touch. And, jesus, Eliot was already hard, and when he broke the kiss he was dizzy, and it was all that he could do to just… hold on. And pant hotly against Quentin’s lips while he tried to regain some semblance of composure.

And Quentin, oh. Quentin just kept holding onto him, like he might actually be afraid to let go. Like Eliot might be the only thing holding his feet on solid ground. “That was nice,” he said, and then he buried his face in the hollow of Eliot’s throat.

“Yeah,” Eliot said, his voice utterly ruined. “You, uh… you should finish your dessert.”

Quentin kissed Eliot’s neck softly, and Eliot thought for certain he was going to pass out. “I heard some of the other Physical Kids talking about you,” he said, releasing his hold on the back of Eliot’s shirt. “A while back…”

Eliot pulled back, and he had no hope of hiding his obvious arousal. And it might have been embarrassing were his brain capable of feeling anything but furious, blinding lust. “You did?” he asked, gripping the edge of the counter, still close enough to Quentin to feel the hot little puffs of air coming out of his mouth. “What, uh… what about?”

“They were saying that you… were really good at, um…” Quentin had started to tremble, his whole face flushing with desire. “You know…”

Quentin’s eyes scanned down to the bulge at the front of Eliot’s pants, and Eliot thought, fuck this. He’d had about enough of playing coy. “Do you wanna go upstairs with me, Quentin?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, his eyes so blown with lust they were black. “I do.”

They abandoned their dessert on the counter without a second thought, all but running from the kitchen, up the stairs, into Eliot’s room where he kicked the door shut behind them and locked it up tight. Quentin sat on the edge of the bed, and for a moment Eliot felt frozen to the floor, so he did the only thing he could think to do that didn’t involve using his legs.

“Can I, uh…can I touch your wings?” he asked, and Quentin’s face lit up in a smile.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathed, colors strobing gently in his dark eyes, his hands already working open the buttons of his shirt. “Come over here.”

By some miracle, Eliot came unstuck from the floor, got his feet moving in the way he was pretty certain they were supposed to, and by the time he made it over to the bed Quentin was shrugging his shirt off and tossing it away. He sat down, and Quentin turned to him, his wings looking somehow more magnificent and shimmery and bursting with color than they even had last night.

“So how do you… wanna do this?” Quentin asked.

“Maybe, um…” Eliot’s heart was pounding so loudly, he wondered if Quentin could hear it. “Straddle my lap?”

Eliot had hardly even finished saying the words before Quentin was on him, settling down easily as Eliot rested his hands on the soft curve of his waist, and Quentin gave him a little smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eliot breathed, eyes flicking between Quentin’s face and the gentle way his wings were twitching at his back. “Is there a spot where… you like to be touched?”

“On my wings?”

“Yes.”

“They’re, um, more sensitive closer to my body.”

Eliot started to come back to himself then, remembering who he was, who he currently had on his lap in his bed. All those weeks of wanting. He couldn’t afford to fuck this up. “Does it feel good?”

“It can, yeah,” Quentin said. “It can feel really good.”

“That’s… good,” Eliot said, his hands skirting up along Quentin’s waist and around to his back. “Will you tell me how it feels when I touch you there?”

Quentin only nodded, and Eliot’s hands moved steadily upward, until suddenly he was there, his fingers bumping right up against the spaces where Quentin’s wings were bursting out of his shoulders. It was all smooth muscle there, smooth and soft and strong, and Eliot paused, giving himself a moment just to breathe before going any further.

Quentin had two pairs of wings, both protruding from the same ridges of muscle that ran along either side of his spine, and if Eliot hadn’t been so mind-numbingly horny he probably would have been fascinated by the anatomy of it alone. Tentatively, he let his fingers graze along the spot where wings met flesh, and he could feel Quentin tensing on top of him at once, a tiny gasp slipping out of his mouth. The wings felt just how Eliot had imagined they would, soft and smooth and thrumming with magic. Blood-warm and delicate, yet strong, with hardly any give at all when Eliot let his fingers press down just a little.

“How does that feel?” Eliot asked, and Quentin gripped his shoulders to steady himself while he trembled.

“If I say it’s turning me on is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot breathed. He was pretty sure he’d never been so horny in his life. “That’s… more than okay, Q.”

“Okay.” Quentin laughed, letting himself relax just a little, slipping his arms around Eliot’s neck, their bodies so close Eliot could feel the thumping of his heart in his chest. “Keep going… keep… keep doing that.”

Eliot couldn’t help the thought he had then: _I wonder if he could come just from this._ The very idea of it made his dick throb between his legs. He took the edges of Quentin’s wings between the pads of his fingers, exploring the length of them gently, his own breath catching in his chest at the sounds it pulled from Quentin along the way. 

“Your dick feels really big,” Quentin whispered against his ear, rolling his hips a little to let Eliot feel that he was just as aroused, and Eliot was certain in that moment that he was actually going to lose what was left of his mind.

“Oh baby,” Eliot sighed, letting a shudder roll through him. “That what you want, hm? You want daddy’s dick to fill you up?”

“Yeah,” Quentin all but sobbed, his voice all soft and thready and ruined, his fingers clawing at the back of Eliot’s shirt. “Please.”

A little whimper slipped out of Eliot’s throat as he took one hand away from Quentin’s wings, used it to grip him roughly by the hip, began rocking their bodies together, the hard lines of their erections aching together through the fabric of their pants. Eliot’s hand still on Quentin’s wing moved steadily upward, the magic pouring into his palm unlike anything he’d ever felt before. They were so alive, but it was more than that, like something beyond life or even magic itself. And as they continued rutting together, and Eliot stroked his fingers up and down Quentin’s wing, and Quentin sobbed into his neck, it occurred to him all at once what he was actually feeling.

It was Quentin’s pleasure, every nerve in his body singing with it, pouring right back out into Eliot’s hand and setting the whole of him ablaze. A feedback loop of lust and wanting, and Eliot wanted nothing more than to strip Quentin bare, to feel every part of him, every delicate inch of his flesh, to take him apart slowly, so slowly. There was just one problem with that plan: he couldn’t actually stop stroking his wing, or bucking his hips in a desperate attempt at chasing his pleasure, at chasing Quentin’s pleasure that was becoming his own. He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t—

Eliot’s orgasm hit him like a freight train, and it was all he could do to hold onto Quentin and sob into his neck as the pleasure washed over him, as Quentin held onto him and did the same. They shuddered together for what felt like hours, an entire lifetime, the room beating around them in time with their hearts, mouths panting hotly, hands digging into flesh anywhere that they could find it. 

In the haze of the afterglow, Eliot fell down onto his back, still a little dazed when Quentin collapsed against his chest with a heavy sigh. 

“Fuck…” Quentin breathed, letting a little laugh roll out of his chest.

Eliot couldn’t see them with his eyes closed, but he could hear the joyful humming of Quentin’s wings at his back. “Yeah. Jesus, Q, I’m… sorry… I don’t know what came over me.”

Quentin laughed against Eliot’s neck. “Don’t be sorry. That was… fuck, that was amazing.”

Eliot laughed then, and opened his eyes, watching Quentin’s wings flutter above them, his hands running up and down the dip of his back. “Still… I promise to make it up to you just as soon as I can get it up again.”

Quentin pulled back, grinning down at Eliot with a softness in his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “I don’t hate the sound of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> So. I realize this only just barely fits the requirements of my own prompt for the month lmao, but I couldn't help it when my monster turned out to be a soft shimmery faerie boy with the most magnificent wings. I also realize ending it here is probably very mean of me, but I AM planning a sequel, and the sequel might turn into a Whole Thing, so. Here's to hoping I can make that happen soon-ish. <3


End file.
